


we can take tonight (and make it last forever)

by greyhavensking



Series: f(ace) the truth [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Bucky Barnes, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Birthday, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29889462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyhavensking/pseuds/greyhavensking
Summary: “Are we celebrating something?”Steve’s smile flickers, then smooths out into a cautious frown. Uh-oh, Bucky knows that look, far better than he’d like to; Steve looked like that nearly twenty-four-seven the first month or so Bucky was home, whenever he had to remind him of some basic human right Bucky had no real concept of anymore.“Buck,” Steve says, his hands tightening reflexively on Bucky’s hips, “today’s your birthday.”_____(or the one where Bucky is still ace, Steve is still bisexual, and they celebrate Bucky's birthday together)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: f(ace) the truth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197653
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	we can take tonight (and make it last forever)

**Author's Note:**

> It's that time of year again for me to celebrate the birth of a fictional character, and Bucky Barnes deserves all the good things, so I thought I'd write out Steve giving him said good things. It felt especially apt to include this in my ace!Bucky 'verse. The timeline here is... kinda wonky, probably; let's call it 2016 and pretend nothing after Age of Ultron actually happened. Also, you don't have to have read the first part of this series, but I mean, you can? I think it's a good time, but I'm biased.
> 
> Title taken from David Cook's "Take Me As I Am"

Bucky returns to their apartment in the late afternoon, his entire body sore like it only ever is these days after he’s spent most of the morning in Nat’s studio, putting his ill-gotten Red Room skills to good use as her dance partner. Natasha isn’t one for going easy on anyone, let alone the people she knows can handle her rapid-fire pace, and god, it feels a little like he’s gotten run over a semi-truck with the Hulk behind the wheel; his feet are one  _ jeté  _ away from going on strike and deserting him, he’s sure. Although, in fairness, he’s grateful she didn’t break out the pointe shoes — Bucky can hold the positions with some degree of grace, but, despite his super healing, he’s not a fan of the gorey mess it makes of his toenails.

Shutting the door behind him, Bucky shucks his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack Steve insisted on, dropping his keys onto the side table as he walks further into the apartment. He doesn’t see Steve in the living room on his way into the kitchen, though that’s not unexpected; Steve’s been in and out a lot the past week, fielding calls about some threat that popped up on the Avengers radar. Natasha only shrugged when he’d asked her about, saying it wasn’t anything too serious, which echoed what Steve’s been telling him, but still. Bucky’s always been a worrier when it comes to Steve, and seventy years of hell hadn’t managed to snuff out those instincts in the slightest, just buried them deep enough they weren’t at the forefront of Bucky’s mind.

He drains three glasses of water standing over the sink, contemplating whether or not it’s worth the effort to shower  _ now  _ rather than do it after he’s passed out in bed for a few hours. He’s disgusting, honestly, his t-shirt and leggings drenched in sweat, his hair mostly shaken free of the ponytail he’d put it up in earlier, damp, curling strands of it clinging to his forehead and cheeks. But he’s also  _ exhausted  _ and Steve just changed the sheets yesterday, adding a new ultra-soft knit blanket he’d ordered from somewhere, and Bucky would be lying if he claimed he’s above falling prey to the siren song of sleep with a lure like that on offer. 

He’ll no doubt get a helluva lecture from Steve when he finds him dirtying up the bedspread, but Bucky can always wash the sheets again; it’s his turn to do laundry, anyway, what’s one more load in the grand scheme of things?

Bucky grins a little to himself as he sets his glass down in the sink (another thing he’ll worry about cleaning later). Steve’s something else when he’s in a fit of righteous rage, but when he’s mildly exasperated by household chores? He’s fucking  _ adorable _ , always has been. Not that Bucky used to call him out on it; Steve took anything like that as some sort of challenge to his competence as a human being, as though being  _ cute  _ meant being less-than. Bucky can understand the sentiment some, but personally, he’s been the type to preen over compliments since he was a toddler, according to his Ma. He certainly likes it when Steve returns the favor nowadays, at least. 

Every part of his body protests as Bucky makes his way into the bedroom, his shoulders more than anything else as he’s already in the process of dragging his shirt over his head. The relief of unsticking the damp fabric from his skin is worth it, though, and he lets out a soft sigh once he’s free of the damn thing.

“Good workout, Buck?”

Bucky freezes just past the doorway, caught off guard by the sight of Steve perched on the end of the bed, a chipper smile tugging at his mouth, his eyes bright with mirth. Bucky holds the bundled up shirt to his chest, cocking his head in question, and Steve just motions him to come closer. He doesn’t have much of a reason to protest, so he does, slotting himself neatly between Steve’s spread legs once he’s tossed the shirt into the hamper they keep beside the closet.

Steve’s hands — delightfully warm and only a little rough with callouses — curve around his bare waist, his fingers spread, thumbs rubbing gentle at the points of Bucky’s hip bones. Bucky damn near shudders into the contact, his eyes fluttering; he hasn’t actually seen Steve all day, not counting the dorky selfie he’d sent at the ass-crack of dawn while he was out on his run with Sam, and Bucky’s missed him, cheesy as that might be. That, and Steve really does have magic hands — Bucky loves the whole of Steve Rogers with everything in him, but he’s especially partial to his hands, even more so when he’s got them anywhere on Bucky’s body or wrapped around a pencil or a stick of charcoal. 

“Figured you wouldn’t be home until later,” Bucky says, sliding his own hands over Steve’s shoulders, cupping the back of his neck. There’s a distinct lack of tension under his fingertips that he doesn’t usually equate with Steve still being on the job. “You get everything sorted with” — he wiggles his fingers against Steve’s skin, trying to convey whatever vague threat has had Steve occupied the last few days — “y’know, all that Avengers business? Thought you said you still had a lot of digging to do.”

Steve hums noncommittally. “Turns out it’s more in Stark’s wheelhouse than we originally thought.” He shrugs, grinning up at Bucky. “Barring any world-ending disasters, I’m officially off rotation for the next week.”

“You could’ve texted me. I would’ve grabbed somethin’ for dinner on my way home. We’ve got… almost nothin’ here, far as I’m aware.”

“Nah, I wanted to surprise you. ‘Sides, we’re ordering out tonight anyway, aren’t we?”

That’s news to Bucky. Steve may like the convenience of takeout, but he’s a stickler for his Depression Era values, and he’d much rather they make their own food on the cheap when they can. “Are we celebrating something?”

Steve’s smile flickers, then smooths out into a cautious frown. Uh-oh, Bucky knows that look, far better than he’d like to; Steve looked like that nearly twenty-four-seven the first month or so Bucky was home, whenever he had to remind him of some basic human right Bucky had no real concept of anymore. 

“Buck,” Steve says, his hands tightening reflexively on Bucky’s hips, “today’s your birthday.”

Bucky feels his face go slack with surprise.  _ Huh.  _ That explains the takeout; it’s what they did for Steve’s birthday last year, a few months after Wanda cleared Bucky for civilian life. Bucky kinda had to gently bully Steve into getting something from his favorite restaurant, but it had been a good choice, and Bucky very fondly remembers the mess Steve had made of himself using chopsticks for what was probably only the fourth or fifth time.

His birthday, though. Bucky hasn’t exactly had cause to celebrate it for a long time, and this time last year he’d been holed up in a make-shift safe house, agonizing himself over his decision to keep running from Steve. The day had passed him without anything noteworthy signalling it as different. He’d remembered, in a distant sort of way, that March 10th was the day he was born, but… it didn’t get sorted in his cache of memories as anything all that important. Although, now that he thinks about it, his birthday has never been something he got all that worked up over; he was much more concerned with celebrating another year of Steve Rogers being alive and by his side.

The increased pressure of Steve’s grip pulls Bucky from his thoughts, and he offers Steve an apologetic smile. “Sorry, sweetheart, I just…”

Steve nods, having shaken off his own surprise. “I get it, Buck, don’t worry. But… does that mean you don’t wanna do anything for it?”

The needling tone in Steve’s voice clues Bucky into the fact that while Bucky clearly hasn’t given today’s date any thought,  _ Steve  _ has. And he’s not too interested in denying Steve the chance to spoil Bucky a little, the same way Steve’s tried getting over his aversion to accepting kindness from Bucky because he knows the joy it brings him.

“I take it you already got somethin’ planned, Rogers,” Bucky says, grinning even as he leans down to kiss Steve, just a quick peck before he’s straightening back up. “And god knows I’ve learned not to get between you and your  _ plans.  _ C’mon, Captain, what’re we doing? You know how much I love following orders.”

Steve barks out a startled laugh at the offer, bending to press his face into Bucky’s stomach, his warm breath raising gooseflesh on his bare skin. Bucky just runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, still smiling that stupid smile of his that’s reserved solely for this big lug.

“Yeah,” Steve says eventually, leaning back. He taps at Bucky’s hips with two fingers, considering. “Yeah, okay, I can work with that. Alright, let’s start with you getting rid of these,” he says, tugging lightly at the waistband of Bucky’s leggings, “and then we’ll move the proceedings into the bathroom. How’s that sound, Sergeant?”

“Sounds like a damn fine idea, Cap,” Bucky laughs. Sleep’s the last thing on his mind now that Steve’s here, so giddy with whatever he has in store for Bucky’s birthday. “Bath or shower?”

“Bath,” Steve tells him as he stands. He works on discarding his own clothes while they walk towards the ensuite, nudging Bucky to remind him he’s still got his leggings on. “It’s already filled, Nat let me know when you were on your way home so I had time to get everything ready.”  
Bucky smells cherry blossoms before he’s even gotten the bathroom door open, and he wonders how he missed it when he walked in, but quickly dismisses the thought. He had other things on his mind, and Steve’s quite the distraction on his own. The bath is filled, like Steve promised, and while normally Bucky might argue he should’ve showered first to get rid of the fine layer of sweat he’s currently wearing, he doesn’t have the heart to drain the tub when he sees that Steve’s taken care to arrange all of Bucky’s favorite bath products in the nooks lining the wall, and that one of the (ridiculously expensive) bath bombs Steve usually gripes about has already been dropped into the water. The water’s a pastel pink that’s probably just as nice to Steve’s artist eye as it is to Bucky’s not-so-delicate sensibilities. 

It’s fucking perfect.

Steve, fully stripped, lowers himself into the water first, then makes adorable grabby hands at Bucky until he laughs and joins him, sinking into the delicious heat of the water with a shameless groan of pleasure. Steve chuckles in his ear, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him snug to his chest, and Bucky sinks back against him happily, settling in between his legs. Steve’s dick perks up a little at the position, and Bucky leans his head back on Steve’s shoulder, giving him a shit-eating grin he perfected back during the War, to which Steve (going so pink he can’t possibly blame it all on the bath) rolls his eyes and flicks water at Bucky’s face.

It will never not be hilarious to Bucky that Steve still, after all this time, after practically living in each other’s pockets for most of their lives and then literally on top of each other as they made their way across Europe, gets so embarrassed by the way his body reacts to Bucky’s. Bucky’s never held it against him, because, really, the guy’s not exactly choosing to pop a boner, and more importantly, he knows Steve doesn’t expect anything from him. 

Bucky’s not sex-repulsed (one of the terms he was so grateful to learn in this century) by any means, he just has no interest in it; and while he probably could have been convinced to give Steve a hand sometimes, because he loves Steve and he’d really do anything for him, Steve’s never asked. Doesn’t want to ask, as far as Bucky knows. Steve’s made it clear he’s content taking care of himself in that regard, and Bucky trusts that it’s the truth. 

But, he reminds himself, now isn’t the time to contemplate the merits of their relationship, and he lets himself exist in the moment, enjoying the drag of Steve’s sudsy hands over Bucky’s chest, his shoulders, down his arms. Both arms — Bucky made sure to tighten the plates before he got in to keep the water out of the inner mechanisms, and the various soaps won’t tarnish the metal any. So Steve treats them the same, his touch equally warm and reverent as he trails his palm down Bucky’s metal bicep, squeezing lightly so Bucky can register the pressure better. 

He’s definitely smiling dopily as Steve works him over, judging by the breathy laugh Steve lets out as he’s squirting another dollop of body wash into his hands to scrub at Bucky’s back. Bucky nudges him with an elbow to the ribs, but otherwise doesn’t react; just leans forward and wraps his arms around his knees so Steve has better access to the expanse of his back. By the time Steve’s moved on to wetting Bucky’s hair and lathering it with the sweet-smelling shampoo they both favor, all the tension has fled from Bucky’s muscles; he’s got the consistency of wet noodle, suffused with the warmth of the water and Steve’s tender ministrations.

Goddamn, they really need to work more mutual baths into their daily lives. Bucky loves that this was Steve’s idea of celebrating Bucky’s birthday, but he doesn’t want to have to wait until July to get his hands on Steve like this in return. 

“Feeling good?” Steve murmurs, not so much washing Bucky’s hair at this point as just massaging his scalp. The noise Bucky lets out in response is probably pornographic — Steve’s dick takes some more interest in the proceedings, but Steve pays it no mind, continuing to use his  _ magic fucking hands  _ to render Bucky a groaning, incoherent mess. “I’ll take that as an enthusiastic yes,” he chuckles. “I think you’re gonna be asleep the second I get you toweled off, huh? Maybe before then,” he adds, which. Well. He’s not  _ wrong _ — Bucky feels so relaxed he may well drop off into blissful unconsciousness right here in the tub.

Bucky still tries to deny it, but he only manages a faint mumble as Steve carefully washes the conditioner from Bucky’s hair, cupping handfuls of water and spilling them over Bucky’s head to clear the suds away. 

“We gotta decide on dinner,” Steve goes on, unbothered by the lack of verbal responses on Bucky’s part. “Whaddya think? That Thai place we had last month delivers, I’m pretty sure, and that was the first place you said was actually spicy enough to warrant the dumb faces I pull all the time when we get Indian.”

When Bucky’s soap-free, Steve tugs him upright and rests his chin at the join of his neck and shoulder, squeezing his arms around his waist in a hug. He peppers kisses against every inch of skin he can reach, all along Bucky’s neck and under his jaw, waiting patiently for Bucky to pull himself together enough to form a real, multi-syllable reply.

“Thai,” Bucky husks, nodding a little, to himself or Steve he isn’t sure. Not that it matters, really. “I can do Thai.” 

“Good choice, pal.” Steve smacks another kiss to his cheek, then gingerly disentangles himself from Bucky, letting him lean back against the bathtub as he levers himself out of the water. “Stay there for a minute, I’ll go call in the order and grab you some clothes.”

Bucky hums his assent and does just that, relaxing in the cooling, pink-tinged water and idly watching as Steve gives himself a perfunctory pat down with the towel he snags from the sink counter, then slings it around his waist and heads out into the bedroom. Bucky grins to himself; Steve may not  _ do it for him _ , but goddamn his boyfriend is still one of the most beautiful people Bucky’s ever seen in his life, and he always enjoys these private showings, Steve comfortable and loose in a way he never really is outside their home.

He must doze off for a few minutes, because when he next opens his eyes Steve is crouching beside the tub, dressed now in his softest sweatpants and a tank top, gently shaking Bucky’s shoulder to get his attention. The water’s not quite cold yet but it’s lost most of its charm in the time Steve’s been away, and when Steve coaxes him to his feet he goes willingly. Steve’s much more thorough with drying Bucky off than he was with himself. Bucky cheekily points this out, grinning at Steve’s rising flush, but Steve just retaliates by draping the towel over his head and scrubbing a little more vigorously, prompting Bucky to giggle and shove at him until he relents and slides the towel down to his shoulders.

“You think you’re real cute, huh, Barnes?”

“‘Course I do, Rogers. At least compared to your ugly mug. Can’t believe they had you touring with all those pretty gals from the USO show, you musta stuck out like a sore thumb.”

Steve huffs, pulling Bucky closer by the towel to press a kiss to his lips. “I stuck out ‘cause I was a guy, jackass. And I’ll have you know all those  _ pretty gals  _ were real interested in getting up close an’ personal with this ugly mug.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky lifts a brow. “And what did Agent Carter think of all that?”

_ That  _ gets Steve flushing lobster red, which only makes Bucky laugh harder. Bucky may not have been comfortable with their relationship in the forties, but he’s had time with Steve to be reassured that Steve loves  _ him _ , completely, that he’s not competing with anyone’s ghost — not even his own. Point is, he’s more than willing to embarrass Steve by invoking Carter’s name, and you’d think Steve would’ve realized that by now and learned not to try and jokingly make Bucky jealous. 

“Dumbass,” Bucky says fondly.

“Love you, too, you fuckin’ jerk.”

Steve’s brought Bucky a pair of his own sweatpants, as well as the Captain America hoodie Barton bought him ( _ from one brainwashed assassin to another,  _ or something) that Bucky unabashedly adores. Steve lets him get his arms through the sleeves himself, then steps in close to secure the zipper and tug it up to mid-torso, leaving a fair bit of Bucky’s chest visible through the gap. Bucky would call him out on it, but — it’s cute, Steve trying for some of the cheek Bucky gives him, the kind he doesn’t admit to loving but absolutely does. And, well, he likes that Steve likes to look, even if nothing comes of it; Bucky was, as Natasha lovingly put it, an attention whore for most of his life before the War, and it’s something he doesn’t mind reclaiming in small doses. Especially not when the attention comes from Steve.

They get themselves settled on the couch, curled up next to one another, with a random episode of Star Trek playing on the TV, mostly for background noise. Steve studiously ignores the trio of wrapped packages sitting underneath the coffee table, like if he pretends they don’t exist that’ll somehow keep Bucky from noticing them. He clocked them the moment they sat down, but because he  _ loves  _ Steve, he says nothing, just snuggles with Steve until their food arrives and Steve makes the tremendous sacrifice of getting up to retrieve it.

Steve erred on the milder side with the food he ordered for himself, but he still goes red all over with the heat of it, and redder still when Bucky laughs so much he nearly upends his takeout container in his lap. He manages to right himself in time, cradling the container to his chest even as he wheezes out another laugh. Steve looks him square in the eye as he gulps down a glass of milk Bucky specifically got up to get him because he knew this exact thing would happen. Predictably, it sets Bucky off again, and it’s a long while until he’s calmed down enough to finish his food.

Steve’s smiling like a damn fool despite his embarrassment, pleased with himself, and Bucky loves him so much he aches with it.

With the takeout cleared away (which Steve didn’t let Bucky help with, citing  _ birthday privileges _ , the bastard), Steve eagerly bounces back into the living room, dropping down onto the coffee table and plucking the gifts from underneath to settle beside him. Amused, Bucky shuffles on the couch until he’s sitting knee-to-knee with Steve, catching his eye and quirking a curious smile at him. Neither of them really had the means to do anything special for birthdays when they were younger, not beyond practical gifts, at least, and considering that Bucky definitely went a  _ tad  _ overboard with Steve’s last July, he’s not surprised Steve went out of his way to get a few things for Bucky. There’s the faint hope that it wasn’t anything too expensive, a holdover from their perilous childhood, he’s sure, but one look at the puppy dog expression on Steve’s face and Bucky knows he’d cave even if Steve handed him the keys to a luxury sports car.

...he does hope he didn’t get him a car. Bucky hates driving, hates the stress of it, and he doesn’t trust Steve with anything but a motorcycle in this city. He’ll love Steve regardless, of course, but… he really hopes there’s no car.

“This one first,” Steve says decisively, placing the thin, suspiciously book-shaped gift into Bucky’s waiting hands. Bucky doesn’t question him, picking at the wrapping until he can pull up one edge and slide the book out (neither of them are great at wasting anything, goddamn gift wrap included).

He knows he lights the fuck up based on the answering glee on Steve’s face.

It’s a signed copy of one of his favorite books,  _ The Martian _ , with the original cover rather than the movie-based one he’s seen in stores since it came out last year. Bucky  _ loves  _ this book — he’s all for outlandish sci-fi, like the pulp novels he read as a kid, but what he really obsesses over is the realistic stuff, the ones that make it seem possible for humans to galavant across the fucking universe, and  _ The Martian  _ delivers on every front. Plus, he’s got a soft spot for the sarcastic, disco-hating protagonist that Steve teases him about relentlessly.

“Stevie, you know I love you more than I love Mark Watney, right?”

“Yeah, sure, pal. Just like you know I think you’re way prettier than the guy who plays Beck in the movie.”

“...touché, Steve.”

The next gift turns out to be a cashmere sweater in a gorgeous baby blue that Bucky is convinced matches Steve’s eye color perfectly. He begs ignorance on it, but when he mentions he asked Natasha for help Bucky knows it was on purpose; he’s ranted to Natasha more than once about how unfairly pretty Steve’s eyes are. He might’ve even done it today while they were in the studio; god, that would explain the knowing smirk she kept throwing his way. He’ll have to find some way to thank her for it later. Probably with unholy quantities of vodka she’ll then insist on sharing with him. It’s a good thing he can’t quite get drunk these days.

The last gift — well, Steve holds onto the last one for a moment, his brow pinched in thought, possibly concern. Bucky waits him out, content to run his fingers over the almost unbearably soft fabric of the sweater in his lap. Eventually, Steve draws in a deep breath, exhales slowly, and then offers the gift to Bucky.

His first thought is that it  _ can’t  _ be what he thinks it is. The box is small, easily held in the palm of his hand, which would indicate something like jewelry. Bucky isn’t much for anything that needs a hole in his flesh to wear, and while he’s picked up a few wristbands and watches, even a necklace or two, he’s not that interested in expanding his lackluster collection. Steve knows that. It leaves… very few options.

Steve’s face is carefully blank, aside from the set of his jaw that says he’s a lot more nervous about this than he’d care to admit. Bucky flicks his eyes over him, searching for clues and coming up empty. He can read Steve like a book most days, but whatever this is, Steve’s determined not to give anything away with his body language. He just keeps his eyes on the box in Bucky’s hands and says nothing.

Bucky takes his own grounding breath, then unwraps the gift.

It is a box, lined with velvet, but now that Bucky’s looking at it he thinks it’s too big to hold a ring. A little longer than he’d expect for that, too. And that’s — good, he thinks. God knows Bucky is gone on Steve, that he’d do anything to make the man happy, god knows they’re  _ committed  _ to each other. They don’t need a piece of paper telling them how much they mean to one another. Not that Bucky would say  _ no _ if Steve asked, exactly, he just… would find it odd that Steve would do it on his birthday, of all days.

But if it’s not a ring…

_ Please don’t be car keys.  _

Curious (and mildly concerned), Bucky flips open the box.

His breath hitches in his chest, eyes startlingly wide, and Steve takes that as his cue to close the distance between them, abandoning his perch on the table to settle into Bucky’s side. He grabs Bucky’s free hand with both of his own, squeezing reassuringly.

The box holds a pair of dog tags. They’re surprisingly shiny, given their apparent age, though they’re pitted with marks, signs of wear and tear that indicate they saw action. Too much action, probably. But it’s not the state of them that has Bucky struggling to breathe — it’s the fact that they’re a mismatched set. One reads  _ Barnes, James Buchanan,  _ and the other  _ Rogers, Steven Grant.  _

“I don’t know if you remember,” Steve says softly, his breath warm against Bucky’s ear. “When I… When I found you, in Azzano, after we’d had some time to, y’know, decompress, and you’d finished reaming me out for being a  _ reckless fucking asshole, _ you yanked both our chains off, unclipped one tag from each and paired them together. You didn’t even say anything, just put yours back on and then looped the other around my neck, lookin’ at me like you were daring’ me to refuse. I didn’t, of course, I wasn’t that stupid. But, um. You had yours when you… when you fell, and god fucking knows what Hydra or the Soviets did with them. And, well, I was wearing mine on the Valkyrie, but SHIELD took them off me when I was found and they somehow ended up at the Smithsonian. It’s… well. It’s taken me this long to get them back.”

Bucky can’t stop touching the tags, rubbing his flesh-and-blood thumb against the raised lettering of their names, tangling the chain around his fingers. He’s not sure what about this has him so out of sorts — he has a decent amount of his memories from the War, he knows what he and Steve went through. He knows what they were to each other, the sacrifices they made to keep the other safe and alive. He knows how it ended. How  _ they  _ ended. He even remembers doing what Steve says he did, giving them each a piece of each other by exchanging their tags. 

And yet. Holding them, here and now, it feels like a punch to the gut, like all the air’s been forced out of his lungs, like his heart’s been launched into his throat.

Heat prickles behind his eyes. This is  _ proof _ , he thinks. Proof of just how devoted he and Steve have always been to one another. Proof that Bucky Barnes loved Steve Rogers with his whole damn heart, even when he was at his absolute lowest, even when he was so angry he could scream with it. Even when he thought that fuckin’  _ nothingness  _ would eclipse him entirely, he put his faith in Steve, put his faith in  _ them _ . 

“Please tell me you’ve got another chain,” Bucky whispers, and it’s broken and cracked and borderline hysterical, but Steve understands him, just like he always does. 

He lets go of Bucky with one hand to reach into the box, pulling up the bottom lining to take a second chain out. Bucky scrubs roughly at his eyes, then sets about taking off the  _ Barnes, James Buchanan  _ tag so he can hook it onto the second chain. His flesh-and-blood hand’s shaking like a leaf but the metal one is steady as ever, and he makes quick work of it. 

Steve’s smile is looking a little wobbly as Bucky puts the chain over his head, the tag clinking softly on its chain as it falls against his shirt. Steve takes the other chain himself, and, after getting a nod from Bucky, does the same for him, placing it reverently around his neck and holding it to Bucky’s chest, his palm trapping the tag against Bucky’s racing heart. Bucky copies him, his own hand to Steve’s heart, the tag warm and solid between them. Then they’re just staring at one another, both of them trying not to cry and failing spectacularly, and Bucky would swear their hearts are beating in time except that’s ridiculous and sappy and too much for him to handle right now.

“I love you,” Bucky says, and it’s only half a sob, so he counts it as a win.

“I love you, too, Buck,” Steve murmurs, just as choked up. 

It’s another endless moment before Bucky all but launches himself at Steve, tackling him into the armrest of the couch. Steve catches him with a startled noise, but holds him just as tight, his hands settling warm and broad between Bucky’s shoulder blades, each fingertip pressing down another blissful point of contact. Bucky tucks his face into Steve’s neck, breathing out shakily, and Steve’s arms squeeze him a little tighter in response. They haven’t held onto each other like this in a while — like letting go would mean something much too close to goodbye. Sometimes, after nightmares have woken them both and their pasts hang heavy over their heads like a fucking pair of guillotines, they’ll grab at each other, fisting handsfuls of shirts and hair, holding on for dear life because they know the devastation of not being able to intimately. This isn’t quite that, Bucky thinks, feeling Steve’s heart race against his own chest, Steve’s hands starting to stroke down his back, not so much trying to comfort but just  _ feel. _ Emotions are running high but it’s not fear drawing them together — it’s just love.

“Don’t know how I’m gonna top this for your birthday,” Bucky mumbles, the words scratchy with unshed tears and largely muffled by Steve’s shoulder. Steve hears, though; he laughs into the side of Bucky’s head, like Bucky knew he would.

“You don’t gotta do anything special, you know that,” Steve says, and they are both perfectly aware that Bucky  _ absolutely  _ plans on doing something special, because he can now and Steve deserves it, but he doesn’t fight Bucky on it for now. “Although… let’s maybe think about getting outta the city this year. I could do without the fireworks, or Tony’s idea of a  _ surprise party. _ ”

Bucky almost grimaces at the reminder of Stark’s last attempt at celebrating Steve’s birthday. Not only had the guy taken out a goddamn  _ billboard  _ across the street from Stark Tower with Steve in his USO uniform plastered on it (apparently similar to what he’d been doing since Steve got out of the ice), he also decided that calling in an Avengers Emergency was the perfect way to get Steve and Bucky to the Tower in time for the party. Which at least had been a mostly quiet affair (Bucky’s sure that part of it was Pepper’s doing, considering Stark isn’t exactly known for doing anything in moderation), with only the other Avengers and a few outside friends. It had kinda been hell for Bucky, though, with only having been back a few months by that point, and Steve had been a concerning mix of angry and embarrassed by the whole thing. He hadn’t responded to any messages from Stark for about two solid weeks after that.

Stark promised he wouldn’t pull the same stunt this year, or anything like it, but. Bucky would love to not be in New York that day, all the same. The fireworks bother Steve more than they do him, for whatever reason, but it’s not like Bucky’s a fan of watching Steve flinch and pale every time one goes off in the distance. 

Bucky sniffs and pulls back just enough to look Steve in the eye. “Let’s go upstate, yeah? Hike out to the middle of nowhere, no one else around for miles… we gotta pack a shit-ton of bug spray, though, the heavy duty stuff. Swear to god, Steve, you’re like a fuckin’ buffet to mosquitoes and they go after me just by association.”

“What, you don’t got the blood to spare? Not like any of it’s going to your—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m gonna strangle you with your own damn tags.”

“Aw, Buck, I’m not wearing my tags,” Steve says, sickenly sincere, “I’m wearing  _ yours _ .”

“You fuckin’  _ sap _ ,” Bucky laughs, slapping Steve’s shoulder and pushing away from him to flop back onto his own couch cushion. “God, you’re escalating your levels of sap, too. I thought the bath was gonna be the highlight of today, and then you pull this stunt…” He eyes Steve for a moment, laying a hand over the tag still dangling against his chest. “You said you got ‘em back from the Smithsonian, right? How’d you manage that?”

Steve smiles, and it’s more rueful than Bucky would like, but the annoyance isn’t something he can currently combat, so he settles for offering Steve a sympathetic look. “I hired a lawyer right after I got reanimated, actually. Tried to get it all back on the grounds that it was  _ mine _ , and that I never gave up ownership of it. The museum people were, uh, not real pleased with the request, as you might’ve guessed.”

“Coulda just stolen it,” Bucky points out, not unreasonably. Something like that wouldn’t have even pinged on Steve’s patented injustice radar, considering the stuff  _ was  _ his and it was all kinds of ridiculous that he couldn’t have his own damn things after he’d been frozen for sixty-some years. 

But Steve only shrugs. “Didn’t seem worth it,” he admits, quiet. God, Bucky always aches when he thinks about Steve, fresh out of the ice and so alone in a world that didn’t know him, didn’t  _ want  _ to know him, that only wanted Captain America. “Not until you came home, anyway. Then I got one of Tony’s lawyers on it, and things went a lot smoother this time. Even got an apology from the guy who told me off for trying to deprive the public of these  _ historical treasures _ .”

Bucky has to remind himself that Steve would not appreciate him using Winter Soldier scare tactics on a civilian, not even an asshole like that. It takes a moment for him to completely squash the idea, and from the expression Steve’s wearing he knows exactly what Bucky’s thinking. Rolling his eyes, Bucky grabs for his new sweater, tangling his fingers in the thick fabric for want of something better to do with his hands.

“Okay, well, by now you can tell I’m ecstatic that you did get these back,” he says, glancing down at his tag around Steve’s neck, unable to staunch the smile tugging at his mouth. “So let’s drop it for tonight. Sound good to you?”

“Sounds perfect, Buck,” Steve says, with his own lovesick grin.

“Great. I’m assuming the birthday festivities are done with, so whaddya say we clean up and head to bed?”

Steve’s eyes go comically wide at that, and he shoots up off the couch, surprising Bucky as he darts into the kitchen. “Shit! I forgot the cake!”

Cake? Bucky can’t help but raise his brows as he watches Steve fiddle with something in the fridge. He’s a little dubious at this revelation, and he doesn’t mean to doubt Steve, but… well. He knows Steve learned to cook sometime before Bucky entered the picture again, and he’s a more than passable chef so long as he’s got a decent recipe in front of him, but baking is another story entirely. Steve was shit at it in the thirties and Bucky has seen little evidence to convince him things have changed in this century; any time they have pastries or the like in the house they’re always from the bakery three streets down from their apartment. So it’s with a skeptical smile that he tracks Steve pulling a tray from the fridge and walking back towards him.

The cake is — cake-shaped, at least. Round, two layers, covered in a generous helping of white frosting that Bucky sorta hopes is buttercream. The closer Steve gets, the more Bucky can see he  _ tried _ with this. Steve’s got as steady a hand as they come, partially due to the serum and partially due to his own stubbornness, but the piping around the edges of the cake is shaky, dripping a little down the sides. Scattered around the middle are bright bursts of — Bucky thinks they’re flowers? They’re a soft red color, with long, delicate petals, and he’s pretty sure they’re meant to be stargazer lilies, which are — not so coincidentally — Bucky’s favorites. He’s as fond of the name as he is the flowers themselves, and Steve drives himself a little crazy trying to find them in the city when Bucky’s having a particularly bad week. 

Cake decorating may not be one of Steve’s strong suits, despite his artistic background, but goddamn does Bucky love him for the attempt.

Steve sets it down on the coffee table, along with two plates and a handful of cutlery he snagged from the kitchen counter. He sits down next to Bucky, smoothing his hands over his thighs, refusing to look up from the cake. Bucky waits him out for a moment, but when it’s obvious Steve isn’t going to start talking, he goes for a knife, though he holds off on actually cutting into the cake yet.

“I gotta ask,” Bucky says, his tone carefully neutral, seeing Steve’s shoulders rise incrementally towards his ears. “How long did you spend on this?”

“I… uh. This is the third cake.”

Bucky blinks. “Did you throw the other two out?”

“Fuck, of course not. Sam was trying to help me at the Tower, that’s what we were doing during our down time waiting for Tony and Bruce to sort through the date, and when the first two failed I made sure the others ate ‘em. They didn’t taste bad,” Steve rushes to add, darting a fervent glance at Bucky, “they just… came out wrong. Lopsided. A little burnt.”

“And the flowers?”

Steve winces. “You’d think I’d be good at it, right? I’ve sat on my ass watching the Food Network enough with you to have a general idea of how it goes, and I’m good when it comes to art, but this goddamn  _ fondant _ wouldn’t work with me!”

Steve looks so put out by losing his battle with the fondant that Bucky has to lean over and kiss him, which goes a long way towards distracting Steve from his irritation. He grins at Steve as pulls away, makes sure his best guy is looking right at him as he cuts a neat slice of the cake and maneuvers it onto a plate. He gets himself a big forkful and takes a bite, Steve watching nervously the whole time. 

He doesn’t see a point in prolonging the torture Steve’s no doubt inflicting on himself, so once he’s finished chewing Bucky smiles as brightly as he can at Steve.

“Not bad, Rogers,” he says, and Steve lets out an audible breath, shoulders slumping. “And the flowers are cute. They kinda look like a middle schooler’s Home Ec project, but—”

“You’re a jerk,” Steve says, but he’s smiling and moving to take his own piece.

“Sure,” Bucky agrees easily, his smile turning a little sly, “but I’m  _ your  _ jerk.”

That earns him a faint blush and another eye roll. “I’d like to see you do better.”

“I’ll get Nat to help me.”

Steve squints at him, lowering his fork slightly. “Natasha can bake?”

“No clue. But she’s damn competitive when it comes to Wilson, so I’m sure between the two of us we’ll wipe the floor with you two dumbasses.”

Steve might be laughing at him now, but Bucky’s already making plans. Sure, he loves Steve, loves that he took the time to make  _ three  _ cakes and chose the best of the lot to give to Bucky, but they wouldn’t be  _ Steve-and-Bucky  _ if they didn’t also give each other shit all the time. They still tend to get odd looks from the rest of the Avengers, but they don’t much care; Steve has Bucky’s entire heart, and Bucky has Steve’s, and at the end of the day that’s all that matters. Besides, they were best friends long before they were lovers, and their dynamic didn’t change much with the transition. Shit-talking should be expected.

Bucky takes another bite of cake and grins around his fork at Steve, who looks back at him with such fondness it makes Bucky’s breath hitch a little in his chest. Bucky’s tag glints in the light of the living room, drawing Bucky’s eye to Steve’s chest, and a curl of warmth unfolds in his own at the sight. When he glances up, he’s sure he’s mirroring the sweet expression on Steve’s face, and he’s… he’s just really happy to be where he is right now, with this person who loves him so completely, a man he’d do anything for and who would never ask him for more than he could give. So much has gone wrong in Bucky’s life, so much he wishes he could forget, but he has Steve, he has  _ them _ , and he wouldn’t trade their life for the world.

Shifting his fork to his metal hand, Bucky reaches out to intertwine his fingers with Steve’s, seeking the solid warmth of him. Steve’s happy to accommodate him, balancing his plate on his knees and gripping Bucky’s hand securely in his own, his smile softer now but no les beautiful. They go back to the cake, but they keep their hands clasped together, and Bucky thinks — well, he thinks he’s pretty damn lucky he’s in love with a guy like Steve, and that he’ll have fun this year showing him just how much he appreciates that on the 4th.

But that’s for later. Right now, he just wants to enjoy  _ Steve  _ and all the ways he’s made something special out of a day Bucky didn’t even care to remember. 

_ Happy birthday to me.  _


End file.
